Things He Left Unsaid
by SuSilba
Summary: Sherlock cannot be fooled, but certain events at the pool confuse him. There's something wrong with John he can't put his finger on. Mild S/J, Jim died but the real Moriarty is closer than Sherly knows...SPOILERS for series 1, a 'John-is-Moriarty'-fic!
1. Chapter 1

There was a shot, but then silence.

Where's my John?

Other people, like their so-called friend Lestrade had considered it very lucky that they actually managed to survive the whole pool-incident. But Sherlock being Sherlock knew that there was more to the case that he had seen so far, and it had nothing to do with luck. He and john did survive without so much than a scratch, which was a miracle by itself, nothing exploded and it would appear that Moriarty was dying while being transported to the nearest hospital. Now Sherlock was sitting in a cab beside his doctor, suffering from a nasty headache and more confused than he could remember ever being.

The consulting detective relied on two things: his mind and John. Or that was the situation before this particular case had showed itself. Now he felt like his mind refused to function, like something painfully obvious was escaping his attention. This had never occurred before, and every time he tried to reach for the thought, it withdrew deeper into some dark corner of his mind. This made him grind his teeth in frustration so he moved on to the next bit that was oddly worrying him even more.

A quick glance at John told the detective that he was falling asleep against the window, head supported to his left hand. It's funny when you think you know someone, and they still surprise you in ways you couldn't imagine even possible. How exactly could a simple man, like John, survive an evening like this and still _fall asleep_? Earlier he had first shouted at Sherlock, then was kidnapped by a psychopath, strapped to a bomb (or so he thought), and finally he had shot the guy. All that time he had been way too calm for it to be considered as normal behavior for anyone. And besides it wasn't fair when Sherlock was trying his hardest not to pull all the hair out of his skull while gathering his wits. Had John known about the bomb or something?

The cabbie coughed loudly to announce that they had arrived at 221B, and Sherlock nudged the sleeping form beside him.

* * *

><p>When they finally had climbed to the cab at the former pool, currently turned into a crime scene, John had decided that the safest possible thing to do was to feign sleep. He was actually very good at it.<p>

Tonight hadn't gone as he had thought it would, much to his surprise. Normally Sherlock was such an easy mind to read, not that John would ever tell that to him. He had known that his flatmate was tired of waiting and overly curious, and so he was alert and waiting when Sherlock sent the request to meet "Moriarty". (Of course he knew every message his friend ever sent, you see when Mycroft's minions have already following his every move, all the doctor had to do was to bug their phones and radios. Simple.) He only disappeared to be a "hostage", and summoned Jim and a couple of snipers to wait in positions. While fetching the smoke bomb and hiding it under the parka, he thought of tonight's endless possibilities with enthusiasm only an adrenalin junkie could have.

John Watson was many things, but a liar wasn't one of them. He had long ago discovered that the best liars always told the truth. He was exactly who everyone thought he was, but so what if he hadn't told every single thing about himself? He wasn't a genius, he wasn't a murderer (if you count the cabbie out, that was _so_ clearly self- or Sherlock-defense), he had been shot while serving in Afghanistan and had a medical degree. Maybe he just didn't tell anyone about his… hobby. Well, in lack of a better expression, hobby it is. John couldn't do what his partly mental flatmate did, and his abilities were average in almost all aspects. But he was a people-person to the core. Quite literally, everybody seemed to like him and trust him against their better judgment. And he could read people's moods, guessing their needs and possible actions very precisely. He still wasn't any genius or mastermind, he just had great hunches and an adorable personality.

The thing was that he had his normal life and he loved it. After all, he _was_ a very simple man. But beside all that he was very interested in the human mind, and as a thrill-seeker he had put his abilities in good use at an early age. When he started organizing dangerous gig's for others under a false name, his goals consisted just plain amusement. It was the safe way, making the plans and watching the action from afar. Only the stupid ones actually get caught, see. Anyhow, his reputation grew among all sorts of criminals, and soon he noticed that he could actually stop working and live off his criminal career. Still, being the smart one (and far too attached to his daily life), he kept his profits small so they would be unnoticed by anyone. The first thing was to be sure that nobody, including his clients, could trace him under the artist name "Moriarty" if he ever needed to quit in a hurry. The second was to stay away from the actual field, so there would be no possible accusations of breaking in, murder etc.

Meeting Sherlock had been a very random event though he was very aware of who he actually was. It was like some kind of leap off a cliff to move in with the man, considering his brainpower and everything. Still something just pulled John to the weird man, and he truly had an interesting mind. He had even started to like the man, and he was so hilarious when John had decided to tease him a little.

But at the pool something went horribly wrong. The setting was perfect for Sherlock and John had stepped out from the shadows expecting a great show. But the minute he laid his eyes on the detectives gray-blue ones, he saw something disturbing.

"…John?" The half-whispered word sounded like a plea. Was he… panicking? Couldn't be, right? Wasn't he supposed to enjoy every second of this creation of his so-called arch-nemesis? Looked like he was crushed by the idea that his friend had done this to him.

Years of learning to control your facial expressions are never wasted. John continued his little play as he'd planned.

"Evening, Sherlock. This is a turn-up, isn't it?" Oh, if you only _knew_.

Things started to go even more downhill from there. His flatmate didn't recognize the bomb to be a fake (and panicked more when he saw it), he seemed surprised when Jim appeared and finally ripped the vest off me. When Jim reappeared as planned, he kept glancing at John oddly, and was set to blow us all up. This was not the plan, he was supposed to know the bomb to be a fake! After a pause he did shoot at the "bomb "vest, and dove in to the pool dropping the gun. John realized that Jim was no longer more than a threat, so he picked up the gun and fired his minion to the shoulder (oh, the irony) while smoke started to fill the room. He would live, but John was pretty sure that Mycroft would send someone to kill the man who dared to endanger his brother. This way he wouldn't have to get blood on his _own_ hands. And left alone Jim would be very dangerous and it would cost an unnecessary amount of civil lives. Grabbing the astonished and dripping wet Sherlock he ran out hearing the nearing sirens.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?" Heavy silence.<p>

"Sherlock, get inside. People are staring and it's bloody freezing!" None of John's words registered to the detective. He was just standing on the road staring at their door with a confused frown. His friend tried a different approach and stepped in closer to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"For Christ's sake Sher-"

"Did you know it?" The taller man cut through John's voice. "It doesn't make any sense other ways. But why? Criminals aren't supposed to change their patterns, and what would be the game without the chance of actual death? Then the snipers didn't even fire! I'm starting to think that they were just blokes with laser pointers. And then YOU just shot him. Like that, and he let it happen, I tell you! Now we don't know is he going to pull through or not and-"

"Shush! I just got a text from Mycroft, Jim Moriarty died of internal bleeding or something. Just breathe, okay?" Sherlock stiffened visibly for a few seconds and then slumped suddenly forwards. The next thing John realized was that his bloody flatmate was hugging him. _Hugging_. _Him_.

"Eh… You alright, mate?" This was totally something unexpected for John. Sherlock hugged him tighter, mumbled something about losing something, and ran off in one blink of an eye. The doctor stood now mimicking Sherlock's earlier position: staring at the door his jaw hanging open. Eventually he'd climb up, but now he just couldn't gather himself. _What the fucking hell was that?_

At least Sherlock was still clueless. Right?


	2. Chapter 2

Ch. 2

"The awkward moment when your best friend/flatmate/colleague discovers that you are an international criminal mastermind."

… No. John deleted that and stared at the blank blog post. Since when did he have any trouble of writing about the case they had worked on? Now he couldn't even bring himself to write about Sherlock's brilliance.

'And I'm overreacting anyway', he thought. 'He didn't even suspect me, he was too busy panicking and doing other un-Sherlock-y stuff.'

In fact Sherlock was so clueless it actually worried John a bit. Considering his reactions and everything, the doctor was beginning to wonder if he simply didn't want to believe his only friend was hiding something. The detective's attitude was kinda sweet, believing in John so bloody much. They both had big trust-issues (at least John's rubbish therapist got something right), so when did Sherlock start to truly trust him? Still, it was sweet.

Sherlock's phone chimed in his pocket, where he'd left it accidentally after checking for anything unusual messaging. You can never be too safe with Mycroft; the sneaky government-man would probably still have people chasing Moriarty just in case. A quick look at the text told him that Lestrade had another case for them. Well, Sherlock hadn't moved in two days, so he would need the exercise. John's inner doctor shuddered violently. God only knows how the insufferable man was still alive, after a lifetime of neglecting each and every one of the basic human needs.

And while he was at it, John could conduct an experiment of his own.

"Sherlock, Lestrade's texting about some gruesome murder, apparently the man was skinned beyond recognition and the police can't find anything even after the DNA-tests. Want to go?"

A couple of seconds passed before he opened his eyes and looked at John from the sofa, probably for the first time in the said two days.

"Right, we could have a look." He frowned a little. "Ah, so _you_ had my phone. I was wondering where it went. Thank you for bringing it here, I'll just go to get changed now while you put your coat on." He then dashed towards his room the blue robe whirling behind him.

_Unbelievable. _His phone was stolen and the messages searched, and the great Sherlock Holmes didn't even blink. And had he also thanked willingly? The pool must have had a graver influence on him than John had originally thought.

When John finally got out of Lestrade's crowded office, the heated argument had been going on for something close to three hours. As always, Sherlock had a theory nobody was buying in the current lack of evidence, and they had now gotten to the part where Sherlock was past the point of trying to be civilised. He got frustrated when they told him to just leave the case to be as "unsolvable", and he was now trying to convince them he could do it if allowed to continue.

When the doctor's need of tea (or something else with caffeine) got unbearable, he slipped out while Anderson was yelling about wasting police resources.

John walked down an empty corridor, fantasizing about a good night's sleep, when he sensed someone's gaze on him. A quick glance told him that every single one of the security cameras was directly pointed at him. Well, at least he couldn't honestly say he hadn't been expecting this. John didn't look around, but opened his mouth to a greeting.

"Evening Mycroft, what's with the dramatic entrance?"

He didn't hear any sounds of surprise behind him, so he slowly turned to see what was taking the normally so fluent Holmes so long.

The older man stood leaning on his umbrella, ankles crossed as per usual and an icy smile on his face. Still, there was something wrong about his posture. The smile was too tight, his eyes were flashing with carefully hidden emotion and the stance was slightly stiff. Hell, the man was looking positively uneasy, gripping the handle of his brolly with white knuckles.

"What, no clever comebacks for me? When you're done with the disturbing stare, I could go and get Sherlock. He's… ahem, _negotiating _about the case upstairs."

"Doctor Watson, you know perfectly well that I have arrived here to discuss only with you, and I do hope we would keep this between you and me. For the moment, this has nothing to do with my dear brother."

John frowned a bit at the use of his title. "It's not like he couldn't sense that I met you as soon as I go back to the office, you know what he's like. And I'm told that I'm a very bad liar, too."

"Well, maybe you just don't give yourself enough credit, _John_?"

That's it. Now the doctor was sure he knew something, judging by the amount of venom in his voice, but what exactly? He'd been so careful, and Mycroft's men had been tracking his actions for years without any success. John was still alive and the police had no clue, so the grinning bastard before him probably was just suspecting foul play. But what was the weak link that gave something away?

Time for the classical move: change subject and watch the reaction.

"I read the coroner's report. I doubt that Moriarty died of internal bleeding, that would be impossible when the bullet hit him only to the right shoulder, right?"

"Oh, _please_, save me from the pointless repartees." Mycroft glared daggers at me while tapping his foot impatiently to the floor. "Something's off about you, about this whole situation, I might say. I'm going to dig the whole truth out very soon, so you better watch your back, _doctor._"

A sudden realisation dawned on John. "It was Jim, your mysterious source I mean. It was him all along."

"What can I say? I can be very, truly persuasive when I hope to." He was turning to leave, but stopped to have the last word. "In the meantime, I assure you, any harm on Sherlock and I'll come straight to you."

"Why don't you just tell him whatever you got against me? Surely he would kick me out or something."

"Would he? I'm not willing to take the risk he wouldn't." What the hell did he mean by that?

They stood staring at each other as if it would somehow help the situation, until there were hurried footsteps behind John. Of course it was Sherlock.

"John, there you are. I became a bit worried when you didn't reappear for good ten minutes- oh. Say, what an unpleasant surprise for you to appear, Mycroft. Did you finally get enough of conspiracies and wars? I didn't realise harassing John would be that entertaining for you."

"I was actually going to see Lestrade about something he would probably want to know, but I happened to run into John meanwhile." Sherlock glanced at the cold stare John gave his brother when he mentioned informing Lestrade, but was pulled back to the conversation by Mycroft's odd remark.

"But my dear brother, since when you started getting worried over anybody? My, you are starting to get soft in your late years."

To John's great astonishment, Sherlock's only comeback was a muttered "sod off", while he blushed fiercely. Then he declared that he was done with the case and that they should leave now, without another word to his brother. Before he was dragged out by the beanpole he called his flatmate, John shared one last look with Mycroft. The look on his face was a peculiar one, mainly because he wasn't glooming over his small victory in the endless battle between the two Holmes. Mycroft had an expression of pure worry, directed at his brother. He had been right when thinking that every word against John would hurt Sherlock horribly, and at that moment decided to keep him in the dark until things had cleared up a bit.

Outside in the cold breeze, even if John noticed that Sherlock had forgotten to let go of his hand, he didn't mention it.


	3. Chapter 3

ch. 3

"Out with it, John. You've been awfully silent for insupportably long and I'm dangerously bored. Don't you see how desperately tedious everything is? So boooring…"

"Sorry, can't help."

"Tell me that I'm not the only one? All you have done since we got back—about three hours ago, I might add—is to sit right there and stare out of the window very intensely. Actually it's quite curious, the window hasn't personally offended you in any way, but still you manage to ignore everything else around you. Twenty minutes ago I dissected your phone and planted the GPS-chip on the skull—"

"You did WHAT?"

"Oh please, do I really need to repeat myself? As I was saying, this will ensure that the next time Mrs Hudson tries to hide it I will be two steps ahead of her. And you just completely missed this! Some military man you claim to be. So evidently you have something on your little mind that I need to hear. Spit it out."

'Well I don't have to be very alert 'cause I happen to be the most dangerous man in the country', John thought humorously. He blinked at Sherlock, and then quickly turned his head towards the wall to hide a small grin.

Sherlock was thoroughly bemused. John could surprise him almost every day, do the most confusing things… Why in hell was he smiling?

The next thing he realised was a pillow hitting him squarely to the face.

"Wha… you threw a bloody pillow at me!"

Okay, John was unquestionably grinning evilly now.

"Glad to see that you managed to maintain your invincible powers of deduction even after that horrid cushion almost broke your nose. Oh, don't be such a baby, I have every right to be sarcastic, and stop scowling at me! You know damn well that you brought this upon yourself, you vile cell phone-murderer."

"For your information, nobody, I mean NOBODY, gets away with hitting me with anyth—"A pillow hits Sherlock's side.

"Ouch! I'm serious! Stop it or I swear—"Hit to his left cheek.

"John Hamish Watson, you. are. so. dead."

The Great Pillow-War of Baker Street lasts for ten minutes, drawing occasional laughs, groans and grunts out of the fighters. The abrupt stop arrived in the form of a very concerned Mrs Hudson who was holding a frying pan as a makeshift weapon.

"Boys, is everything alright—oh my dear god, I'm sorry! Don't let me interrupt, just reard some funny noises, I'll… just be going, see you later." She retreated swiftly to the nearest exit with a flushed face (and a way too knowing look planted on her face).

On the sofa, the two men stared at the door like statues, frozen in place and still holding their arms. John was holding his pillow as a shield while laying on his back where Sherlock had cornered him. The man in question was still looming over John, his weapon raised high and ready for a fatal blow.

Well, one could see why Mrs Hudson had… ideas… and probably now a heart-attack. After all, they were both flushed and Sherlock was practically sitting on John's hips.

Slowly, light blue-grey eyes met dark blue ones. Complete silence fell.

Suddenly Sherlock sniggered.

"What?" John was bewildered and dazed, but Sherlock's giggles were getting louder and he began actually laughing out loud.

"Sorry John", he said while fighting over the laughter that just kept bubbling out of him. "Can't help it, your face… my god. I wish I had a camera."

John still had the pillow, so he punched Sherlock with it so hard that he fell over. That wasn't very wise tough, considering that the detective now landed flat on John's chest with a small 'ugh'. Still he kept giggling, the sound sending small vibrations trough the now trapped John.

A small sigh of exhaustion escaped the doctor's lips. "Great, now our dear landlady is even more convinced that we have a 'thing'. She's going to be so intolerable, and I'm the lucky one she'll torment. You always dodge these conversations with your 'I'm a sociopath'-shite, maybe you just made that up to get away from situations like this…"

"Hmm"

"You're not staying there, so don't you dare to fall asleep! I am not to be used as a mattress. And for the record, you have clearly given up, so I won. Ha!"

"Shut up, I'm sleeping. Am not moving, too tired and you are comfy. Turn the telly on or something if you can't sleep, but some of us would actually like to get some rest before we go to the Scotland Yard in the morning."

"…Are you implying that I'm fat?"

John could have sworn he felt Sherlock roll his eyes. "Out of everything you decide to cling on that? Seriously, you're not a teenaged girl with self-esteem problems. Good night."

In the end John decided that he was too weary to debate, and dozed off himself. Just as he was falling unconscious, he heard Sherlock mumble something.

"Speaking of fat people, do you think we should send Mycroft some cheesecake?"

* * *

><p>"Well, this is awkward."<p>

Sally voiced what everyone else was thinking but still nobody moved an inch.

When Lestrade still didn't show any indication of moving anytime soon, Anderson spoke up.

"Sir, should we throw the freak and Watson out or?"

"No", he answered at length, hissing the words through his clenched teeth. "Show them to the evidence room." The detective then let them pass, but his firm glare didn't falter from John's back until he was out of sight.

'That settles it, Mycroft told him', John thought feeling grave annoyance towards the elder Holmes. He should have sent someone to kill Jim so that Mycroft, that nosy chubby bastard, wouldn't have gotten there first. For his defence it had been very unlikely that Jim would talk, but psychopaths were always disturbingly unpredictable. Normally he could just terminate the threatening Holmes, but there would be severe damage to the whole British government (wouldn't run without him) and Sherlock.

John loathed the very concept of hurting Sherlock, for some unknown reason.

So this left him with a Lestrade who knew. Great.

Beside him Sherlock was still glancing towards the detective, once again confused. He was getting sick of the whole feeling; he'd had enough of it for a lifetime in mere days.

When they had arrived, Lestrade himself was waiting for them at the door, blocking their way to the evidence room. Curiously, he didn't say anything at all. He just focused all his energy into scowling at John.

Sherlock had expected John to do something, but he wasn't even vaguely put out by the other man's insufferably odd behaviour. The doctor settled for staring back with a studying look on his face, and so they stood there for quite a while before Lestrade's team came to look for him.

Sherlock was being kept in the dark, and he absolutely hated it. After the pool there had been these small signs, but they didn't connect in any way. John knew something, Mycroft had talked to him… And Lestrade had talked to him too. So this had something to do with his excuse of a brother that would make the D.I. cross with John.

That made no sense even in his head. Damn.

They took a cab home from the yard a couple of hours later. John was staring out of the window busy thinking of what he would eat next, when Sherlock broke the silence.

"The something involves Mycroft somehow. Care to tell me or shall I find out the hard way?"

John took a moment to realise what he was talking about. He then thought about it and felt a small and a bit sad smile ghost on his lips.

"Yeah, it's always the harder way for you. Have fun."

* * *

><p>AN: Goosh, hank you soooo much for faving this little story guys! I got a bigger audience than i thought... Well I appreciate this very much, and if anyone's got any ideas, notions or feedback I would be forever grateful. Love ya!<p>

Just as a notion, I can also be found over at DeviantArt under the name SuSilba.


	4. Chapter 4

This was an absolutely unacceptable situation, and John was looking far too amused for it to be healthy.

"But John dear, we were supposed to have tea and those scones you enjoy so much, it's been ages since we just sat down and had a nice chat…" Mrs Hudson frowned slightly to John who was pulling his coat on in a hurry.

"I am so sorry, but I just got an emergency call from the clinic and I absolutely got to dash." His apologetic façade flickered to show a gleeful smile when he turned to Sherlock. "But since Sherlock here hasn't got a single case running, I'm sure he would love to catch up with you, right, Sherlock?"

'He bloody set me up, this is a trap!' the detective thought moodily while glaring at his flatmate murderously.

Mrs Hudson had to marvel both the fierce glare Sherlock sent to John, and the indifferent way the older man was capable of handling it. She felt like she could actually hear the wordless conversation/argument floating through the air.

The accusing look on Sherlock said: _'This is your fault!'_

John's face had an overly smug expression. _'Yep, and you fell for it.'_

'_Can't leave me here, I'm a sociopath! This is your job.'_

'_Sociopath my ass and this is the revenge you deserve. Goodbye.'_

'_No wait don't you dare JOHN-'_

"Sorry Mrs Hudson, but I'm so late, got to run!" With that, he was out of the door and hailing a cab, leaving a moping Sherlock who was now efficiently stuck with their landlady. And she was bound to interrogate him until he got tired and slipped some juicy information about him and John. The woman should really work for the police, where her gifts would have a meaningful use other than tormenting her two tenants. He sighed and prepared for the unavoidable.

A little voice in the back of his head reminded him that John had been lying about work, when he had actually gone to see Mycroft.

* * *

><p>Lestrade sighed audibly as his phone chimed for the sixth time in the last ten minutes. A quick check at the little screen- and of course it was from Sherlock. He obviously wouldn't let it go until he got a response. The detective inspector pinched the bridge of his nose, counted to ten and rose from his chair.<p>

"Would you excuse me for a tick? I don't want to interrupt the meeting but this might be important."

The other twelve people in the room nodded simultaneously, all with very sympathetic faces. In the past years (or as the yarders expressed it: AH, the time After Holmes) everyone had learned to recognise the unlucky ones who were about to interact/had been interacting with Holmes.

They all looked, in Lestrade's opinion, too happy about the fact that it wasn't them marching towards the cause to their early retirement.

He sighed even louder than before, accepted his fate and walked to the corridor while dialling. The phone was answered so quick that Lestrade knew his call was expected. Bloody show-off.

"What know, Sherlock, I'm kinda in the middle of something."

"Thank goodness you finally answered. Don't they teach you how to pick up a sodding phone in the police academy?"

"… Just so. Why are you whispering?"

"No time, she could come back anytime now but you _must_ get me out of here, you understand? Case, prosecution, your birthday, ANYTHING."

"It would help if I knew what the problem is, you know."

"Or so you think. I am stuck here, since John abandoned me god that seems sooo long ago—"

"Wait what? He left you?"

"You idiot, of course not, he couldn't do that. I meant that he left to see my devilish sibling and threw _me_ to the beast. I am obviously on the edge of my sanity 'cause even dealing with Mycroft seems more appealing than this hell. Get. Me. Out of here."

Lestrade paused for a moment before saying: "And why should John be with Mycroft?"

"Ha!" Sherlock exclaimed gleefully. "There it is again! I've been thinking of why you get all angry every time someone mentions John and Mycroft in the same sentence. Spill it, I can't get anything out of John."

'_My god he actually doesn't have a clue', _the D.I. thought. '_Nobody gives the seemingly harmless army doctor any credit, but I guess that's how he got away with it.'_

Distracting Holmes' thoughts seemed now like a very good idea. "You make it sound like I had some love-triangle with your brother and Watson. I didn't know you had that much of an imagination." That should disturb him enough so he would stop asking questions. "Now, please leave me alone, I have a meeting going on!"

"An affair? No…" Oh great, he was _thinking_ again. Suddenly there was a woman's voice in the background. "Crap, it's Mrs Hudson! Lestrade, I know—"

The detective inspector lifted the cell off his ear and ended the call. Holmes and his bloody 'emergencies'. With the loudest sigh of the day, Lestrade strode off to the nearest coffee machine.

At the other end of the line, Sherlock was making a quick escape through his bedroom window.

* * *

><p>Two days later John and Sherlock were spending a quiet night in, which included John watching TV and Sherlock watching him like a statue, figuring him out. So far, with no progress. The doctor was buried under his jumpers and blankets looking like an oblivious puppy, drinking his trademark tea. To Sherlock it seemed unfair that someone should look so warm and cuddly and good-smelling… what the fuck was he even thinking?<p>

He was correcting his line of thought back to the safe things when Mycroft strode in unannounced.

"Care to enlighten me why there's an enormous cheesecake on my desk and how did you get it there?"

His fierce glaring was interrupted by John's sudden fit of giggles. He also spilled tea everywhere shaking with laughter, and Sherlock actually couldn't hold back a snigger at his friend's reaction. A laughing John was always a good thing.

"I fail to see the cause to your amusement, _Dr Watson."_ The government-man's icy tone did nothing to erase the giggling, but at least John got up and muttered a nearly understandable 'sorry' and 'I'll be upstairs' before wobbling to his bedroom.

Mycroft shot one more disapproving glare upstairs before turning his accusing eyes to his brother.

"You only send me pastry when you want revenge in your own childish way."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"How did you get it past security?"

"I have my ways."

"Think what Mommy would—"

"Did you bribe Lestrade in to silence, or did you threaten him?"

Mycroft seemed to have anticipated that sort of question.

"I haven't done anything; believe it or not, he's doing it for your sake."

"Come on, like you would know what's going to hurt me or not. I am not a child!" Mycroft just lifted an eyebrow in an overly posh way. _'Well,' _Sherlock thought,_ 'If he is not helping, I'll have to guess haphazardly and he will crack eventually.'_

"So I have to guess. Dull. Could it be that John was working for you?"

Silence.

"That's what I thought, he wouldn't. Actually I don't understand why anybody would voluntarily work near you, not to mention for you… Lestrade spoke something of affairs earlier. Are you having one with John?"

Two seconds of total muteness, until John exploded upstairs. His laughter was bound to wake Mrs Hudson, thought Sherlock. Then there was a loud thump.

"Did he just—"

"Fell off a chair."

"I think so. Didn't stop giggling, though."

"Your fault, for asking stupid questions. I'll be leaving, hope you'll have a wonderful evening. You owe me a favour for this, remember that." Mycroft turned to the door, still having that insulted air about him. "Go and pick him up before he wakes the whole street. Goodbye."

Ten minutes afterwards John finally came down with a wide grin, and an additional wince of pain. He slumped to the sofa next to Sherlock and gathered his beloved blankets around him.

'_Fell to his left hip, now has a slight limp. Hair messy so has been nervously running his hands through it. Took the time to change out of the shirt that had tea on it, why did he bother with another shirt when he's about to go to sleep soon anyway? The walls here are paper, but we weren't yelling (yet) so he left his door purposefully open. Snoop.' _The detective didn't say his deductions out loud, except for the falling part.

"How's the hip?"

"Fine thanks and my stomach hurts too from too much laughing. Now shut it and let me watch the rest of the program in peace."

"You deserved it" Sherlock muttered half out loud. "Had to flee through the window and all…"

"Sorry what?"

"Nothing."

When Mrs Hudson came up to say goodnight (the good meaning stalker that she was) she found John fast asleep against Sherlock's shoulder while the detective ran his fingers absentmindedly through the blond hair. She sneaked out with a happy smile, thinking that they were finally 'getting there.'

* * *

><p>AN: So I haven't seen any of the second series yet, and because of that this story is completely ignoring it. Spoilers are just for TGG...<p>

Rewievs are love and so on! If someone's got ideas, wishes or something, don't be shy and just tell me :D

And finally thanks for all those who alerted and especially for those who faved!

-SuSilba


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock had gotten a call about half an hour ago from the hospital, informing him that John was there for patching up. Again.

How did he get the feeling that this happened far too often?

Well, this time the good doctor had been beaten up, gaining some nasty bruises and cuts along with a black eye. Oh, how he hated when this kind of things happened, you would think that an ex-military man could take care of himself, but no. Needless to say, Sherlock was running out of the door before the call had even ended, not that he would be telling that to John.

However, it was never as simple as that when John was involved. At least that much was obvious for Sherlock when he rushed through the door and saw his flatmate looking all but beaten-up sitting on the hospital bed. Well, he _did_ actually have a collection of cuts, bruises, and a forming black eye (which was gained about 45 minutes ago, Sherlock noted), but he bore the signs of counter-attack and possible use of a firearm. _Interesting._

The detective slumped on the seat right next to his friend's bed, and fixed his eyes on the young nurse that was still fiddling with John's card. After a minute of twitching under his steady glare, she couldn't take it any longer. As she rushed out of the room with a red face, Sherlock allowed himself a light chuckle before turning his full attention to John once again.

"When I got the call that informed me of your current state, the woman on the other end of the line made it sound like you were already pushing daisies. Once again, I'm astonished by this unprofessional behaviour, as you are not dying. Not saying that I'm disappointed by that, just for your acknowledgment." He paused to eye John for a moment. "And they even failed to bring in the poor sod that attacked you in the first place. I would say that he's in a much more lethal state than you."

John sighed a bit amusedly, as he was expecting this. "Well, go on then and skip the rant. Have your fun as I can see your urge to bragger with your intellect. Please do impress me." At this, Sherlock turned to fully face his flatmate, smirking. _This_ was one of the reasons he found John so interesting, why he was so different from all the other mousy-haired little men.

"Right. Well, firstly the blood that's not yours on your hands. Oh please, don't bother to check. I know it has been washed away, but just poorly enough for me to see that there was a lot of it. Too much, in fact, if compared to the very shallow cuts on your upper arms. They would never have bled that lot, so it's not yours. Robbery is unlikely, it's usually done with more care, this just looks like somebody lost their temper and decided to end you. You knew the attack was coming, you only have marks on the front, and they're likely gained while defending yourself. Caused more likely by a male… yea, at least a pretty tall person, had a very small knife. And your knuckles show that you punched somebody, repeatedly. Finally, the gun isn't at Baker Street and I can see from your hands that you have fired at least once today."

John was very still, watching the detective deeply in thought. Sherlock took the lack of questions/praise as a sign to clarify his point.

"So you were attacked in a silent neighbourhood by a lone man with a knife and a bad temper, but you happened to have your gun and you shoot when you got the chance. Now I'd like you to tell me who this person was and what the hell were you doing there."

The doctor had listened carefully in order not to miss anything Sherlock said. Earlier, he had gone to negotiate with one of Jim's former lackeys who had made minor threats against his business. The bloke had always been mental (just like Jim then), and had taken his dear boss's death pretty hard. Sebastian, John believed he was called. Very loyal guard dog and all, had found out who actually killed his master.

Anyway, the meeting was supposed to be private, so John's security team were waiting outside the abandoned house while their boss 'negotiated' inside. John had lured him out of hiding by making him believe that the information he had was important, but all he wanted to do was to eliminate the nuisance. After all Sebastian had seen his face.

Well, the man himself didn't take the news that good. If you put it mildly. But this was a personal matter for John, so he had ended it himself. Shame that he had to go to the hospital now, he really loathed being a patient.

Now all that was left to do was to lie straight at Sherlock's face. Luckily he'd broken up earlier that day, so some of it was true.

"It was Andie, my last date. I don't suppose that you'd remember. But I broke it off today, and it didn't go so well… I think I broke a nose or lip, had to shoot at the ceiling to get away." He wasn't buying this, John could see, but it would distract him if nothing else. "I really don't want to report it, Andie's been through a lot lately…"

"There is _no way_ that one of your girls did that to you, John. Please at least come up with a better lie, this just insults my intelligence." As his friend was speaking, John could feel his jaw dropping. Even _he_ couldn't be that ignorant, could he?

"Umm… Andie was my _boy_friend."

"_What?_"

"Andie's a unisex name. His real name was Andrew, though."

"I don't even… Surely I couldn't miss?"

"Yea you could. You don't notice when I leave the room, remember?"

Sherlock was now staring ahead wearing an absent expression, storing information or something. John decided to get his attention by kicking his leg, which earned a little 'ouch' with a glare.

"Oi, let's not forget that you're here to take me home, to make sure I don't die on my way back. Shall we get moving?"

John knew he'd have to take a small 'business trip' soon, go to Dublin and make sure that Sebastian's information wouldn't cause any major damage. He could go see how things were at his Ireland's branch while he was at it. The guy who was running it was an old friend, it wouldn't do harm to stop by.

It was a matter of maybe days until Sherlock found out about everything, so John decided that the trip could wait a bit. He wanted to enjoy the current situation while it lasted. He smiled wistfully as they walked out of the hospital together, for the umpteenth time.

"You're pissed because you made the same mistake twice, first with Harry and now Andie."

"_Shut up, John."_

"Ha, I'm growing my own powers of deduction now."

* * *

><p>AN:Sorry this is taking so long, but at the moment I'm very busy with exams and stuff. The other part of this chapter wasn't ready, so this is a little short.<p>

Ideas and feedback is most welcome, and reviews make me work faster3


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